


strangers when we meet

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, First Meetings, Ward x Simmons Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5723161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Jemma meets Grant, she’s drunk out of her mind.</p>
<p>[For the <b>Meet Cute</b> theme at Ward x Simmons Winter.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	strangers when we meet

**Author's Note:**

> A response to the **Meet Cute** theme at Ward x Simmons Winter. I might be doing this wrong, who knows? Also I got an anon prompt for a meet cute AU approximately ten million years ago, so...ta-da?
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you like it, please review!

The first time Jemma meets Grant, she’s drunk out of her mind.

It’s been a horrible month. A horrible year, really. She’s _glad_ to be shot of her ex-boyfriend, now that she’s finally realized just how terrible he was, but _knowing_ he was awful doesn’t make the emotional wounds he gave her any less real. She feels as though she’s been scraped raw, hollowed out from the inside, and the tightness in her chest accompanies her everywhere she goes, as though she might burst into tears at any moment.

In short, she’s miserable.

Drowning her sorrows seems like a good idea at the time; chocolates, comfort food, and her favorite films have all failed to lift her spirits at all, and alcohol is simply the next logical step. It even works, for a little while—by the time she leaves the bar, the world is nicely fuzzy around the edges, and for the first time in months, if not years, the awful mix of shame and embarrassment and grief has disappeared from the back of her throat. She can’t even _remember_ the last time breathing was so easy. She feels light and lovely and _free_.

Until, that is, her taxi drops her off in front of her building.

She’s humming to herself as she gets out, pays her fare, and turns to face the stairs. As the cab drives away, though, everything comes crashing back at once.

She can’t remember which floor she lives on.

She only moved into this building a week ago, having spent three weeks in a hotel room after moving out of the flat she shared with _him_ for two years. It’s just the alcohol making her forget, she knows, but in her current state, it seems an insurmountable obstacle. As does the fact that, even if she _does_ remember her apartment number, it will be empty when she gets there. It’s _always_ going to be empty.

Sunil was a horrid person who treated her terribly and never deserved her at all, but he was _hers_. She’s shared her life with him for so long that she doesn’t know how not to. Loneliness is a new and frightening concept, and with the alcohol slowing her mind, it seems to stretch out in front of her, into eternity.

She’s going to spend the rest of her life alone and friendless, and she’s going to do it right here on the pavement because she _can’t remember where she lives_.

Shattered by her epiphany, she does the only thing she can: she plops down onto the steps and bursts into tears.

Jemma doesn’t know how long she spends sitting there, crying into her hands, but eventually she’s drawn out of her spiral of misery by the sound of approaching footsteps. At first she ignores them—something that becomes rather more difficult when they come to a stop in front of her and are accompanied by the sound of a throat clearing.

“Uh…” it’s a male voice, which means she instantly hates the owner. Men are scum. _Scum_. Her gran told her so when she was a little girl, and she should’ve listened. She wouldn’t be in this mess right now if she had only listened to Gran.

“Go away,” she orders through her tears.

He sighs. “I’d love to, but you’re kind of blocking the stairs.”

Without looking up, she scoots over, closer to the railing. She expects the man, whoever he may be, to proceed past her, but there’s no sign of movement. After a long moment, in which she tries to gain control of herself (because the mix of alcohol and sobbing means that her head is beginning to pound horribly), he sighs again, and she hears…something else, which her currently impaired mind can’t quite identify.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

His voice comes from much closer this time, startling her into looking up. She finds him crouching in front of her, one hand resting on the step below her for balance, and for a moment she’s speechless.

He has very pretty eyes, she thinks. It’s impossible to hate someone with such pretty eyes, even if he _is_ a man.

His very pretty eyes, however, are giving her an expectant look, and it takes a few seconds to realize why. She swallows and swipes her hands over her cheeks, trying to erase the evidence of her tears.

“I’m fine,” she says, and he rolls his pretty eyes.

“Kind of hard to believe,” he says. “What with you crying on the stairs in the middle of the night and all.”

Unable to argue that, she buries her face in her hands to avoid looking at him any longer. “Go away.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Just as soon as you do.”

“What?”

“This isn’t a _bad_ neighborhood, but it’s not a great one, either,” he says. “It’s really not safe for you to be sitting outside like this. I’ll go away just as soon as you go home.”

“I can’t,” she admits. The reminder brings her tears back, and she sniffles a little, trying to keep from outright crying. “I don’t remember which flat is mine.”

He’s silent for a long moment. “How drunk are you right now?”

“Incredibly so,” she says.

“Drunk enough to forget where you live, but not so much you can’t say _incredibly_ ,” he muses. “That’s a delicate balance you’ve got going.”

He sounds honestly impressed, and it makes her giggle a bit. It’s also enough to chase her tears away, and when she risks a glance up at him, he’s watching her with a little half smile.

That’s pretty, too.

“I’m not _that_ badly off,” she says. “I only moved in last week.”

“Ah,” he says, straightening. “Then you’re in luck.” He offers her his hand, and she stares at it. “My sister lives in this building, and she’s the nosiest person you’ll ever meet. I’ve spent all week hearing about the cute British girl that just moved into 3C.”

3C! That’s right! Now that he says it, she can’t believe she forgot. It’s embarrassing, really.

Well, at least now she knows. She’ll be able to sleep inside instead of right here. That’s a relief.

She means to thank him, but somehow instead asks, “Your sister thinks I’m cute?”

“I’m willing to bet _everyone_ thinks you’re cute,” he says, smile widening.

With her fears of spending the rest of her life on the stairs put to rest, everything looks much brighter, including him. He’s not just pretty, he’s _gorgeous_. It might just be an effect of the odd lighting, the way the lamp high on the side of the building shadows his face, but his cheekbones are downright unfair.

He’s much, much more attractive than Sunil.

“That’s something,” she says, trying for a flirty smile (which might be a complete failure; it’s been a while since she flirted with anyone), “coming from someone who looks like you.”

He laughs. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” she counters, reminded of her manners. “I really wasn’t looking forward to…”

She trails off into a gesture which she hopes conveys the steep descent forgetting her apartment number would have put her life into, and he shakes his head. She can’t quite read his expression, but that’s all right; it’s just as attractive as all the others have been.

She’s reminded, suddenly, of the advice that Candice from work gave her upon hearing of her break-up: _the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else._ She scorned the words at the time, but…well. She certainly wouldn’t mind getting under a man that looks like this.

Although she might want to learn his name, first.

“Not that I did much, but you’re welcome.” He offers his hand again. “Can I help you upstairs?”

Remembering the way she stumbled over the curb whilst climbing into her taxi, she accepts his hand at once. These stairs are treacherous enough while she’s sober; she doesn’t fancy topping off her week with a trip to A&E with a broken neck.

“Thank you,” she says, again, as he pulls her to her feet. “I’m Jemma, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Jemma,” her rescuer smiles. “I’m Grant.”

As he helps her up the stairs, she leans into him a little more than is truly necessary—and doesn’t feel nearly as guilty for it as she should. He’s warm and solid and marvelously strong, and when she pauses at the second floor landing to fix the twisted strap on her left sandal, she grips his arm for balance and finds his bicep to be impressively defined. She can only imagine what he might look like out of his (admittedly very flattering) Henley…and she has quite the imagination.

She knows better than to proposition him—the last man she hit on was Sunil, and look how _that_ ended—but she’s awfully, awfully tempted. She needs to distract herself from—well, from his _everything_.

“Do you live here, as well?” she asks. “Or just your sister?”

He shrugs his free shoulder. (And if he’s bothered by the way she’s plastered herself to his other side, he gives no sign of it.) “Kind of. I got a job transfer a couple of weeks ago, and I’m staying with Skye until I can find my own place.”

That must be his sister. Jemma tries to think whether she’s met any neighbors named Skye but, after a moment, admits defeat. She couldn’t even remember her _flat_ ; neighbors are likely beyond her right now.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she says. “I always wanted a sister.”

“What about you?” he asks, steadying her as she nearly trips. The distance between steps is slightly smaller than the distance between the top step and the landing; she’s almost killed herself a dozen times this week on this stupid staircase. “What brings you here?”

“I gave my horrible boyfriend the boot,” she says—using Candice’s phrasing, which she’s rather taken a liking to. “Or, well, he got our flat, so perhaps he gave me the boot. The point is, our relationship is over and he’s not good enough at sex for me to continue sleeping with him.”

There’s also the bit about him treating her terribly, but that seems a touch personal to share with a stranger. Unless the sex part was what she should have kept to herself. Hm.

Grant makes a little noise—perhaps muffling a laugh or perhaps something else, she’s not certain. Either way, she’s distracted from it by the gentle squeeze he gives her hip.

He has lovely hands.

“Well, welcome to the building,” he says. They’ve reached her door. “You gonna be okay from here?”

“Yes…unless you’d like to come in and help me undress?” she offers.

His eyebrows go up.

Oh. Oops. That likely counts as a proposition, doesn’t it? She wasn’t going to do that.

…Oh, well. Too late now. What’s said is said, and all that.

She stares at him in expectation, and he smiles a little ruefully.

“Tempting,” he says, and though his tone is promising, the way he detaches her from his side is decidedly not. “But you’re drunk.”

What does that have to do with anything? “And?”

“Ask me again when you’re sober,” he suggests. “For now, I’m just gonna say goodnight.”

She’s tempted to argue the point, but perhaps it’s for the best. Between the drinking, the crushing despair, and the extended crying jag, she’s really very exhausted. Her bed is calling her—and not for sex. She couldn’t possibly give a good showing right now.

“Goodnight, Grant,” she says and, overcome with gratitude for his assistance, throws her arms around him. “Thank you for saving me from life outside.”

He’s laughing as he returns her hug, and it sends a pleasant shiver through her that firms her resolve.

She will _absolutely_ be propositioning him again when she’s sober.


End file.
